


Blasphemous Stem

by sigurfox



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood, Fear, Love, M/M, Madness, Poetry, praying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 10:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16763476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigurfox/pseuds/sigurfox
Summary: Darkness droops onto island when evening is nigh,As if mineral haze fills the bowl of the sky,And the lengthening shadows drift up and suffuseGolden streets of Armenelos in gloomy blues.*Tar-Mairon, high priest of Melkor in Númenor, not only convinces people that Melkor rules the fates of all but believes it himself.





	Blasphemous Stem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/gifts).



> A little surprise :3
> 
> *  
> The m-rating and the 'graphic depictions of violence' warnings are placed here just to be on the safe side really (it's all not that much graphic tbh). The real warning though is that in several seizures of despair i threw down words in some lines and hoped they would fit in right and make sense.

Darkness droops onto island when evening is nigh,

As if mineral haze fills the bowl of the sky,

And the lengthening shadows drift up and suffuse

Golden streets of Armenelos in gloomy blues.

Through the chemical smoke crowds crawl to the gates 

Of the temple where High Priest of Melkor awaits.

Weakened hand reaches up, sour spirit uplifts

To the Giver of Freedom, the Giver of Gifts.

Perfect fit of a neat row of runes flowing down –

Cunning ornament on a vermilion gown

And one broad black girdle around his waist

Hide the vespertine aura of light the unchaste,

Of the serpentine nature. Well covert veneer.

There’s no jewel on him and no juvenile veer,

His severity sleeps in dead calm, barefoot,

By the singing of flames marring air with black soot.

Steady beat after beat, and the drumming won’t cease.

Rings the ritual dagger, it thirsts for release,

Gleaming, suffers upraised in a fist of the priest.

How much longer must he hold the knife from its feast?

One unwavering in this spiritual drought...

Mairon balances right on the edge of blackout.

Through the curtain of spells arms of quietude stretch.

Trance envelops him whole in one exquisite match.

Whispers, tremulous gasps are etched into the walls.

Shreds of power wake up, and among sprawling thralls

Enmossed darkest desires find mirrors in them,

So the true King Beyond feeds on blasphemous stem.

With an orison victims meet sacred design…

_Please do shrive them their doubt in Your wisdom malign,_

_Show a grain of Your infinite mind’s monolith,_

_Just a mote of the grander scheme, finer a myth._

Bitter bite of the blade, sharp knock-knock on a skin,

Tissues tear, tendons split, muscles give – he is in.

Oh at last, urge of lust, the unstoppable call!

When the knife grazes bone, fingers catch on a soul. 

_F_ _ё_ _a, don’t slip away, stay in bestial shrine!_

Viscous river of velvet – incarnadine wine –

Slowly draws, sanctifying the pitiless rite,

On the altar a sigil to Melkor’s delight.

Bloody rivulets slither to pools on the floor.

In the smoking night nothing he hears anymore.

Only one voice is present, a spear in his skull,

Bringing in raptured ecstasy, translucent lull.

Distant voice from the void is commanding his love

And demanding a heart to behave and behove.

As the steel dives in flesh, by the stridulous dirge

Mairon’s burthens into invocation submerge.

***

Dreadful moments before the immaculate dawn

Are reserved for most faithful believer alone.

After feverish ritual Mairon is drained,

Like a foully mortal he’s tired and pained.

Turning to the obsidian absolute prior

He takes off the appropriate formal attire. 

Heavy plain ceremonial robe, grimly stained,

Shimmers down like a waterfall, quiet cascade.

_Oh He pulls and He pulls all the veins out of me…_

Mairon falls on his knees. “Must I lose to the sea?

Must I go down with this pompous wretch of a land?

Answer, Lord, I beseech You. I don’t understand.

Fain to follow your path, prone to tumult of trick,

For long centuries crawling in mud… I am sick!

Do You do this to all Your maiar? Or I’m cursed?

Is this victory worth undergoing the worst?”

His glance stumbles upon passive face carved in stone.

The resemblance is stark. For long centuries known.

“Though I’m scared now to serve You like I always did,

I’m still Yours and for naught but a quite modest meed.

You’re not here but You still hold the world in your grip.

I will do what You want, I will die in the deep.

Give You last of my will, of my adamant root.

Before madness engulfs my ёala for good.”


End file.
